Promises We Meant to Keep (Lancaster Prep Book 3)
Promises We Meant to Keep: Chapter 13

I REMIND myself Spencer is only here because of my brother’s concern, but I can’t help but be giddy at his nearness. The way he smiles at me. How normal it all feels. The last time we were together, he was cruel. Punishing. The hatred in his eyes was obvious and I believed I’d lost any chance I could’ve had with him in that one moment.

Now, I have hope. I’m stupid to believe he could forgive me for marrying Earl without telling him, but I can’t help it.

It’s there, a tiny glimmer flickering deep in my heart. If anyone would’ve shown up out of the blue, I would’ve wanted it to be Spencer. No one else. Not even my brother or sister.

Especially not them. They would’ve eventually told our mother and she’d come right out here and try to drag me home. If she’d shown up when I first arrived, I might’ve let her. It was so scary, so quiet, so dark at night.

The darkness terrified me at first. What could be creeping out there? I had visions of people dressed in black slipping through the trees. Like a gang of ninjas sent on a mission to abduct me and bring me back to New York City against my will.

My imagination has always run totally wild. When I was young and under my mother’s supposed care, my life was simple. Boring. Locked up in a room, forced to remain in bed. Alone with my thoughts and imagination, which grew and grew.

I needed something to entertain myself.

Fortunately, no ninjas came out of the forest ready to abduct me and I grew more and more comfortable staying here. Living here on my own.

Sometimes it hits me, that this is my house. That it belongs to no one but me. I don’t know what that’s like, to own something that’s only mine. Anywhere I’ve lived has belonged to the Lancaster family. Or when I married and moved in with Earl—that apartment I’m still in now may belong to me, but it was Earl’s first.

Earl may have bought this, but he put it in my name before he died, and never came out here. It’s basically untouched by anyone I know or am related to.

It’s all mine.

And now I’m sharing it with Spencer.

I lead him through the house, not embarrassed in the least that it’s seen better days. It has good bones, and eventually, I’ll have it remodeled.

When I pull him into the elevator that will take us to the second floor, he finally breaks the cool façade.

“An elevator? For two stories?” He strokes his chin. “Kind of unnecessary, don’t you think?”

“What if you’re handicapped? In a wheelchair? This is so much easier. It’s nice to have options,” I remind him, bracing my hand against the wall when the elevator shudders before it starts its ascent. “It’s not in the best condition though.”

It halts at the second floor, giving another heaving shudder before the doors slide open.

“I’ll say,” Spencer drawls as he exits the elevator.

I follow behind him, dodging around him so I can continue showing off the house. I point out all the bedrooms, saving mine for last. It’s at the end of the hall, and when we walk inside, he stops short at the wall of windows that greets him. The vivid green forest the sole view.

“It looks like you’re sleeping in the trees,” he says, his voice tinged with awe.

He described it perfectly. That’s exactly what it feels like. The towering redwoods surround the window, the glass so clean it looks like you can reach out and touch them. The house sits on a hillside, and the second floor makes it feel like you’re suspended in air. Among the trees.

I love it, and I’ve never been one who’s drawn to nature. I grew up in the city after all.

I watch him stand in front of the windows, staring out at the scenery. He looks completely out of place, standing in this rundown house while clad in a ten-thousand-dollar suit. Immaculate and without a hair out of place, despite traveling over five hours in a plane to replace me.

Most likely a private plane, so it wasn’t too much of a hardship, but still.

“This is the best room in the house,” he declares, glancing over his shoulder to look at me.

I nod my agreement. “The view is stunning.”

“There are no curtains on the windows,” he observes.

“I wake up to the view every morning.” He turns away from me, staring out at the forest once more. “There’s no point in covering it. The trees are so dense, the sun doesn’t penetrate enough to be overly bright. And no one is out here. There’s no need for privacy.”

“I don’t know if I could ever get used to this. Living out here,” he says absently, almost to himself.

“It’s amazing how quickly you can adapt.”

Spencer turns once again, his expression neutral as he watches me. “That’s how you survive. You’ve always been able to easily adapt to your surroundings.”

I squirm under his observation, wishing to change the subject. I’ve never liked the way he assessed me, always trying to figure me out, and most of the time, I want to tell him to kiss my ass.

Only because, most of the time, Spencer is correct in his assumptions—and it’s infuriating.

He slowly scans the rest of my bedroom, stopping when he notices the cream-colored vase on top of the dresser, a bouquet of black feathers sticking out of it. It totally doesn’t fit in with the rest of the décor in the room, but I found the odd arrangement at an antique store in Carmel and knew I had to have it.

“Nice feathers,” he drawls, his gaze replaceing mine.

I smile. “They reminded me of…me.”

“Still the fallen angel, Syl?”

“More like the black hearted angel who finally knows how to defend herself,” I correct him.

He nods. “I like this version of you.”

Pleasure courses through me and I tell myself to ignore it.

“Do you want to change out of your suit?” I ask.

“Am I deemed worthy enough to stay?”

“Do you want to stay?”

“I should probably head back.”

Disappointment crashes through me, but I lift my chin, fighting against the emotion. “Then go back. Make your report and let my brother know I’m fine.”

He lifts a brow. “You think I’m going to draw up a report on your current status for Whit?”

“That’s why you’re here, right?”

“I didn’t tell Whit I was coming.” He hesitates for only a moment. “He doesn’t even know I found you.”

Shock courses through me, rendering me still. “Really?” I squeak.

Spencer nods. “I told him I wasn’t going to look for you, but then I couldn’t help myself.”

I love that confession—far too much. “Are you leaving today or not?”

“I should.”

Irritation makes me snappy. “Answer me, Spence.”

“I’ll stay.”

Relief makes my knees wobbly. “For how long?”

“Until I have to go back.” His vagueness is irritating, but I don’t acknowledge it.

“You should change then.”

“You don’t like me in the suit?” He glances down at himself.

I like him in the suit too damn much, not that I would ever tell him. “You can’t make the hike in your fancy suit.”

“I can do just about anything in this suit.” He undoes the button, the jacket gaping open, showcasing the flat expanse of his stomach and how the crisp shirt is tucked into the waistband of his trousers perfectly.

“Not hike through the woods to the ocean. You don’t want to ruin it.”

“I suppose I don’t. I’ll grab my suitcase.”

“So you did bring a suitcase.”

“Just in case. Don’t read too much into it.” He strides toward me, pushing past me as he makes his way to the door. “I’m taking the room next to yours.”

He doesn’t ask, just tells me what he’s going to do. Which isn’t normal.

But I’m realizing younger, sweeter Spence is nowhere to be found. He’s been replaced by older, fiercer Spencer, and I have to admit…

I kind of like it. This new version of him.

The sun shines down upon us, warm despite the chill in the wind that sweeps over us. The hill in front of us appears easy enough, but the ground is mostly sand, and we’ll continuously fight to gain traction as we climb it.

Spence just doesn’t know it yet.

I hid out in the kitchen when he dragged his suitcase to his bedroom, and I never said a word about the size of said suitcase either. It’s large. Looks like he brought enough to move in. I thought I wanted to be alone here, but I know when he leaves, there’s going to be a hole where he was, and I will never be able to fill it.

Perhaps it was a mistake that I allowed him to stay. It will be hard to recover from his visit. I’m only torturing myself.

But I don’t tell him to leave. It’s already too late. I need him here.

I just need him. Period.

He took his time upstairs while I puttered around the kitchen, picking up my dishes from breakfast earlier and rinsing them off, then stashing them in the dishwasher. I wipe the counters down and tidy up, marveling at the fact that I even know how to clean the kitchen in the first place. Every little thing has been done for me since birth. Servants everywhere to attend to my every whim. Enough money to buy whatever I want without a second thought.

I’ve never had to work for a single thing my entire life—except for Spencer.

Finally, he appeared, like a breath of fresh air clad in a NYU sweatshirt and dark jeans, ready for adventure. He didn’t say a word when he caught me wiping down the counters, but I’m sure it threw him off. Sylvie Lancaster doesn’t clean.

Well, guess now I do.

“This is a struggle.” I wave a hand at the hill we stop in front of.

He squints into the sun. An attractive look for him, the wind ruffling through his dark hair, the creases at the corner of his eyes new from age. Tantalizing. “It’s not that high.”

“It’s the sand.” I wave a hand toward it. “It runs deep.”

“I can handle it.”

His confidence is appealing, but I glance at his feet, noting that they’re clad in a pair of expensive Nikes. He should’ve worn boots.

“The sand will get in your shoes.”

“I’m not worried about it.” He points toward the trail. “Lead the way.”

I do as he demands, marching up the hill, working hard to make my climb appear effortless. He’s directly behind me, keeping pace, and the more I huff and puff, the more irritated I get.

We finally get to the top of the hill, the ocean spread out before us in the near distance, the wind whipping around us at a frantic pace. I shade my eyes, staring at the white-capped water, the expanse of flat, wet sand beckoning. It’s still a ways till we actually get to the water, and I sort of want to hear Spencer groan in dread. I want him tired and panting, like me.

He’s not even out of breath. And I’d bet money there’s not a grain of sand in his shoes either.

Infuriating.

“The view is gorgeous.”

I glance over at him to replace he’s watching me. “The ocean is beautiful. It’s different on this coast. A little—wilder.”

“I wasn’t talking about the ocean, but you’re right.” His gaze drifts to the water, and I fight against the hot flush coating my skin. “It does look wilder. Let’s go.”

“The beach is farther than it looks.”

He looks down at me, his lips curved in a faint smile. “Are you trying to scare me, Syl?”

“If I haven’t already with everything you’ve had to deal with over the years, I don’t think a laborious hike to the beach is going to do it,” I tease, the realization hitting me as I say it.

I’ve tried to scare him away all these years. Yet he’s still here. With me in California. The man deserves a medal. Or a stern talking to for being such a sucker.

We start down the hill and I let Spencer take the lead, my gaze snagging on the breadth of his shoulders. The elegant curve of his back. His perfect ass in the well-fitting jeans and those long, strong legs. He’s tall, over six feet, and he walks with a confidence I don’t remember him having when we were younger. Back when we were at Lancaster Prep and he supported me no matter what. He was always there for me when I needed him, and I took advantage of that. Of him.

God, I was awful then. So conniving. Everything I learned, I got from my mother.

By the time we make it to the beach, I’m exhausted. I replace an outcropping of rocks and go to sit on one, Spencer continuing to walk along the water’s edge. His silhouette gets smaller and smaller the farther he gets, until he’s a sliver of a human in the distance, and I worry that he’s going to keep on walking and never come back.

But eventually he returns, his form coming back into view until I can make out his every feature, and the relief I feel at his closeness threatens to overwhelm me. He joins me at the rocks, sitting on one that hovers above mine, so he looms over me. He’s windblown and glorious, his dark hair sweeping over his forehead, his eyes squinting against the sun.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” he says, though I hear the caution in his tone.

“Why were you always so nice to me, when I was nothing but awful to you?” It’s a hard question, with an even harder answer, and I brace myself for the truth.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, the wind whipping his hair into his eyes, so he has to brush it away every few seconds. “I was in love with you.”

My heart lurches in my chest and the air stutters in my throat. That was not the answer I expected.

“And you shit all over it. Continuously. It’s like I couldn’t help myself. But I suppose that’s the way it always is, right? We can’t stop the way we feel, even when we know it’s wrong.”

“Are you saying it was wrong to be in love with me?”

“I don’t know. All I know is it hurt, being in love with you.”

Misery courses through me. His confessions are like a punch in the gut. One blow after the other. “I was young and stupid back then. The only kind of love I was shown was always…conditional.”

“I know.”

We’re both quiet. I bend my knees, wrapping my arms around my legs to ward off the cold that comes from his words. I didn’t know what I had. I always counted on him returning and he always did. He still does, because here he is, on the beach with me on a sunny day in the middle of the week. There’s still so much unsaid swirling between us, and the ocean and the wind and sun can’t swallow it up. Our feelings need to be let out. Laid bare.

No matter how painful.

“I can’t blame my treatment of you on my parents,” I finally say. “I should’ve known better.”

“Do you know better now?”

I have to be one hundred percent truthful with him. “I’m not sure.”

That was a blow to him, I’m sure.

“I can’t keep giving you a chance,” he admits, his voice so low I lean in closer, wishing I was sitting next to him on the rock. Pressed against his warmth, my head on his shoulder. “The last time I did, you ditched me for another man.”

I stiffen. I know what he’s referring to. “I just wanted one more night with you.”

“One more night so you could fuck me and leave me, then go on to marry someone else. Someone old enough to be your fucking dad.” The venom in his voice has me leaning away from him, now glad I’m not sitting on the same rock as he is. “Why did you do it?”

“Like I said, I just wanted one more night—”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I know why you came to my apartment that night. I’m talking about you marrying that old ass man. Why, Sylvie? Why did you do it?”

Panic suffuses me and I climb off the rock, marching away from him, my feet making prints in the wet sand. Tears stream down my cheeks and I let them flow, not bothering to wipe them away.

I don’t want to admit why I married Earl, when I barely understand it myself. My weak explanations won’t make any sense to him because they don’t make sense to me. I could’ve fought against it. Against her. But I didn’t. I gave in and I did what she wanted, damn the consequences.

“Sylvie.” His voice ripples on the wind, making me break out into a run, and soon enough, I hear him drawing closer, until he’s practically on me, his long fingers encircling my upper arm and yanking, so I have no choice but to whip around and face him.

His expression is a steely mask and it drops the moment he sees my tears. Men are always weak when it comes to tears, even this one. Especially this one. “What the fuck? Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know how to explain to you what happened,” I admit, backing away from him.

He lurches toward me, grabbing hold of both of my arms so I don’t run. “Just start with the beginning.”

I gape at him, struggling to replace the words, and he gives me a little shake. As if that’s going to jump-start my explanation. “It was my mother’s fault. She made me do it.”

Doubt clouds his already stormy gaze and he shakes his head, his lips thinning into a straight line. “I don’t buy that. You were an adult.”

“Still under her care.”

He barks out a laugh. “Under her care? By the way you always made it sound, she was out to get you every chance she got. I always believed she cared a little too much.”

“You’re right. She did.” My throat is dry, my stomach roiling. Like I might vomit at any second. I’ve never talked about this with anyone, not even her. “She cared about me, but not in the right way. More like she wanted to kill me. She tried to kill me for years.”

His gaze scans mine, his expression turning to disbelief. “What are you saying?”

“All those years I was sick? That I said I was going to die? It was because of her. She wanted me sick. Dying. It got her attention, it got me attention, but it was all fake. None of it was real.”